Thursday, 8 October 2015

To October

Everything holds a poem:
the dew that decorates barley,
a day, a moment, a single sunbeam.
Everything holds a poem.

Everything holds a poem:
an ordinary walk, 
the place you call home,
my child's tiny fingers.
Yes, everything holds a poem.

And you, golden October,
just the way you catch me,
you too hold a poem.

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